


Sunshine

by columbine_and_asphodel (onlycrooks)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Death from Old Age, Devotion, Friendship, Happy Ending, Loss, M/M, Old Age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-18
Updated: 2011-09-18
Packaged: 2017-10-26 03:51:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278365
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlycrooks/pseuds/columbine_and_asphodel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock lives on without his heart, surviving on the memory of a promise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sunshine

Sherlock Holmes was an old man, but even in old age there was a fervor about him. His voice would soar and his hands would move as he spoke, pulling in audiences of other aged people, telling stories from his youth. He would astound them with clever deductions and thrill them with descriptions of late-night chases, running after criminals in the dead of night, dodging cars and other people, dashing past the police. When he was done, everyone would clap and cheer, and he would bow before exiting and quickly making his way to his room.

Whenever he told his stories, he made himself the only character besides Lestrade- not from arrogance or pride, but from selfishness. He was not one much given to sentiment, but the idea of sharing John Watson was one that made his heart ache and his stomach knot. Even in old age, his memory far surpassed that of everyone else, so the sight of his John letting go and leaving him was forever branded behind his eyelids.

* * *

John had always been strong for Sherlock, and he had fought time just as he had fought hunger and sleep. He had forgone wheelchairs and walkers for the thin arms he had come to love. They'd walked everywhere together, Sherlock trying not to move too quickly as his short companion gripped his arm. Sometimes he'd glanced down, noting whether he was moving too quickly or if John had been particularly stiff. Somehow John would always know, and Sherlock's gaze would be met by a dazzling smile as one of John's hands left his arm in favor of giving his hand a gentle squeeze.

He had known his doctor was struggling, but it had still sent frigid daggers through his gut the day he'd gone to John's room and found him lying unnaturally still, his oxygen coming from a tube. It had been enough to bring tears to eyes, the sight of his heart too weak to breathe on his own, but he'd had to go to him, to tell John that he was there. As always, though, John had been the one to comfort Sherlock.

A small hand had reached out the moment he had been within reach, and had Sherlock threaded his long fingers around John's. The chair had been too far away, so he'd sat on the floor by the tiny bed, tenderly tracing veins and placing soft kisses on the scars that had come to decorate John's hand; Sherlock could still name the exact time and way he had gotten each and every scar.

"I'm not leaving, Sherlock," a voice had said, breaking their silence. It must have been John's, but surely his voice been soft and sweet, not gravelly and cracked? "Consider it a temporary vacation. You get to show off for a while, and I get some time to recover from you. Sound good?"

"Not at all. You can't go, John. What will I do without you? How will I-"

"You will go around and show off that massive brain you love so much."

"But, John, I don't- I don't care about it unless you're the one to praise me! You matter far more than a mass of tissue. I love you, John, and nothing matters if you aren't here!" Sherlock had pressed John's hand to his lips, then, not kissing, just feeling the warmth and life that was in the only person he had ever truly loved.

"Sherlock, I-" That voice couldn't have belonged to John, so weak it had broken over his name, but the tone had been John's, the same way the pitch and timbre and the way it made his head swim with warmth had been his.

"No, John, you know better than to talk. You are, after all, a doctor, even if you struggle to identify whether a body is dead or not." A chuckle, definitely John's. "You may say only one more thing. Promise me... promise me you'll meet me again when it's my turn."

Another chuckle- John  _would_  be laughing at a time like this.

"Do you know, when I woke up after collapsing, they said my heart had given out?"

"John," Sherlock warned.

"Oh, shut up and listen, for once. They said my heart had given out, and the first thing that came to mind was you. How could my heart have given out if it had been strutting about, smiling beautifully just an our or so earlier?"

It had been a long time before either had spoken again, Sherlock taking in what John had said and John studying Sherlock's face as he'd dissected and pulled apart what he had just heard.

"I love you, you know, you great git. Go on, then; I promise I will meet you again. In fact, I'll even go a step further. When our little vacation is over, I'll meet you with the biggest, warmest kiss you've ever felt. Now let me have some peace."

Peace had found John Watson, and Sherlock Holmes had been there to be sure it knew the importance of its newest acquaintance.

There'd been a memorial, but Sherlock had refused to go. He'd known how well-like John was, how there would be people from all over who'd want to share stories about him, but he'd had no interest in them. John had been _his_. Why would it matter what other people had thought? He'd known that John would scold him, but Sherlock Holmes had always been a possessive man. John had loved  _him_ , had chosen  _him_ ;  _he_ , Sherlock Holmes, had won the heart of the world's greatest man. Everything and everyone else would be nothing more than insignificant.

After the memorial, a public funeral had been held, and once more, for the same reasons, Sherlock had refused to go. He'd felt Mycroft's disapproval, the old sloth, and known that his brother would go to both and that he would not go alone. Lestrade would want to give his last respects to his good friend, and that meant Mycroft would be hovering about. Sherlock had had no doubt that his brother had still been afraid to speak to the former policeman. Sherlock had been proven wrong, however, when he'd received a card from " _Anonymous_ _(and Lestrade)._ " Lestrade, obviously no longer satisfied with infrequent conversations with the suddenly shy elder Holmes, had made his thoughts known on Mycroft's refusal to write his own name on a card to his brother by drawing a tiny umbrella next to  _Anonymous_.

Vaguely amused by Lestrade's ability to bowl Mycroft over, Sherlock had still spent both afternoons in the courtyard behind the cottage he and John had shared before John had needed to go to a place with medical staff and less hiking. The doctor had argued, of course, but common sense and a very persistent Sherlock had convinced him to leave their cottage. Waking up and finding Sherlock wrapped around him ( _"Bloody hell, you octopus!"_  had been echoed by everyone who'd seen them for the first few months of their stay) the first morning after their arrival and learning that Sherlock would be joining him had warmed him to the idea. The home had been just like their own estate, only much cleaner- much, much cleaner, as John had teased him.

* * *

Sherlock was tired again, his age finally deciding to make its presence known. After a moment, he decided a walk to the old cottage would not be too far.

As he walked, the summer sun beat down on him, and if he let himself be distracted it began to feel as if hands were lying softly against his face. It was a ridiculous idea, but he liked to think it was John telling him he was still there, that he wanted Sherlock to know he still loved and remembered him. The voice he'd always tried to quiet piped up, telling him that it  _was_ John, that it was difficult to breathe because John's arms _were_ holding him, and this time, Sherlock let the voice continue its familiar over-romanticism, basking in the idea that if he were to reach out, he would feel John's soft hair, would be able to run his fingers over the well-known skin of John's face. He refused to try, of course; he was still sane, for all the sun was just a bit hotter than he'd thought it would be.

When he reached the edge of the yard, slightly out of breath, he sat down on the grass in the shade of a tree before deciding he might as well just lie in it, distantly curious how the sun could still be on him.

As he lay there, the sun kept getting hotter, pressing all over him as though it were unaware that he was in the shade. Sherlock waited patiently for it to become too hot, but it never did. He only felt warm hands on his face and the warmest feeling on his lips.


End file.
